As soon as he parted her, as soon as he touched the head of his cock to her, she was trembling, close to orgasm. Everything he did…the way he looked at her, the way he touched her…it was a whole new world of wonders. She reached back, not knowing how to center herself in the midst of the storm he created inside her. She was scared he would hurt her, and scared he wouldn’t hurt her enough.
“Kyle…” she pleaded.
He took her hands and held them hard as he slid inside her to the hilt. He wrestled both arms behind her back and trapped them there, pressing down on her, restraining her. She ground her clit against the edge of the bed as he withdrew and fell forward again. “Please, please, Kyle…”
“Ask me nicely.”
She searched for words, coherent thoughts. “Please, Sir. Please make me come. I want to come.”
He reached under her with one dexterous hand, the other still clasping her tightly by the wrists. She felt like crying with relief as he touched the exact part of her that ached for contact, that triggered fireworks one touch at a time.
“Here?” he asked. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, God,” she wailed. She struggled against his fingers, arching up to press her back against his chest.
He held her hands even harder, fucking her faster while he touched her. “Let go, Cara. Let me make you come.”
She collapsed on the bed again, impaled. He took her roughly, his fingers sliding over her clit in rhythm to his thrusts. She felt the taut circle of his fingers around her wrist like a brand. She stopped struggling and let the crippling release wash over her, thankful for the mattress beneath her as her legs gave way.
Sensation burst wide, flooding her pelvis, her breasts and nipples. She rode the waves as he continued to pound into her, urging her to complete fulfillment before finding his own. Only then did he release her hands, which felt lifeless and floppy. All of her felt loose and floppy, except for the part of her he still cupped, lazily sliding one of his fingers in and out. He tangled his other hand in her curls, pulling her hair just enough to make her moan and come back to awareness.
“I like fucking you, Caressa Gallo,” he said. “I can’t seem to help myself.”
She peered back to find him wearing that casually sexy grin he was so good at. He was irresistible when he flirted. Really, it was ridiculous. “Get off me, you perv.”
“I see how it is.” He laughed, withdrawing from her limp form and tossing his condom in the trash. “You only summon up the ‘pleases’ and ‘Yes, Sirs’ when you need something. Like a big fat cock where it counts the most.”
She turned on the bed, laughing with him. “Is that wrong?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” He effortlessly pulled her over one arm while his other hand started battering her ass cheeks with wicked, shocking spanks.
She yelped and reached back to shield herself from his assault, but he only grabbed her hand and smacked her harder. She was laughing too hard to cry out, but it hurt. She yanked at her hand again and soon they tumbled to the bed in a tangle. She tried to get away but he held her down and landed a few more fiery cracks.
“Stop. Stop!” she howled. He finally released her.
“You’re making me hard again anyway.”
She glared at him, then down at his cock, which was indeed hardening again. “Jesus. You’re like a machine.”
“Lucky for you. Now, just lie still. Stop trying to turn me on.”
“Trying to—what?” Caressa protested. “You’re the one who’s always attacking me!”
“Shh…lie still.” Kyle pinned her down again with a firm hand on her stomach, and with the other hand, began to toy with her curls. “Crazy girl,” he murmured. “Your hair…”
“Don’t touch it if you don’t like it.”
“I like it. It’s just a mess.” He began to twirl some of the curls beside her face, letting them drop against her cheek. She watched his eyes, so deep blue. His full, sensual lips, his aristocratic nose. She tried to fight the feelings flooding her chest. Love and need. Infatuation. That’s all it was. She couldn’t love him, she couldn’t need him. She didn’t have room in her life for a force as big as him. She turned her face away, but he turned it back again. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She sifted her brain for something to say under his scrutiny. “Why didn’t you come in my mouth?” Oh, great one, Caressa.
Kyle gazed down at her in mild amusement. “Did you want me to come in your mouth? You little cum-hungry—”
Caressa dissolved into laughter.
“I wanted to, but I didn’t know if it would freak you out. You should ask me to get tested before we start swapping bodily fluids anyway. If you want to go without condoms. And you would have to go on the pill.”
“I’m already on the pill. One of the things we tried for my mood swings. It kept my periods regular so I stayed on it.”
“Didn’t do much for the moods though, did it?”
She pushed at him. “I hate you sometimes.”
Kyle chuckled and pulled her closer. “I’ll get tested if you want. Then we can go bareback. And I can splooge in the back of your throat as much as you want.”
“Kyle!”
“Cause you seem to want it. You seem to crave it, you little—oomph.”
They were wrestling again, her shoves and elbows no match for his brute force. He just rolled on top of her and grinned down at her.
“Just admit you’re thirsty for my cum and we can stop arguing about it.”
She shoved at him, still laughing. “Cut it out. Hey, I have something else to ask you, seriously. As my assistant.”
He composed himself and rolled off her to his side. “I’m at your command.”
“So, you know that thing tomorrow?”
“That thing? You mean the big meet-and-greet and Lincoln Center fundraiser at which you are the spotlight guest? That thing?”
“Yeah, that. I was thinking about…maybe. I don’t know. Dressing up a little.”
“Of course you have to dress up. You’re the guest of honor. So what were you thinking about wearing?”
Caressa was silent a moment. “I don’t know. I usually just wear my concert clothes—”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no.” Kyle shook his head. “I pictured you in more of a Galliano-type number. You know, those dresses where it looks like you’re being slowly ingested by a mountain of silk and lace.”
“Stop,” she said, laughing and poking him in the side. “I mean, I used to wear these really… I don’t know. Dumb, babyish dresses. Aunt Denise picked them out. I thought maybe you could help me find something more…”
“Mature?”
“Yes.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to. It’s going to be close finding something by tomorrow though. You should have asked me sooner.”
“You’re my assistant. You should have known this was coming up and already picked out what I was going to wear.”
He thumped her on the head and chuckled. “You wouldn’t listen to me anyway. But what kind of style are you interested in? Any particular designers?”
“Designers?” Caressa wrinkled her nose. She sometimes forgot that Kyle used to work for some big movie star. “I was thinking about something classic. Sort of like…” She got up and walked over to her bookshelf, getting an old folder she’d filled with photos and clippings. She flipped through until she found the one she was searching for. She looked down at the young, blonde-haired woman, playing the cello in a champagne-colored off-the-shoulder gown.
“Here.” She took it to Kyle. “I don’t know the designer, but I like this.”
He studied the yellowed magazine clipping. “Let me guess. Miss du Pré.”
“Yes, it’s Jacqueline. I mean, I don’t want to be exactly like her. I want to have my own style, but I think…I think it’s pretty.”
Oh man, his smile always killed her. He cupped her face and kissed her. “I like it too. You would be pretty in anything. Bu
t I see you in red. Or stark white. Something dramatic and textured.”
She started to flush as he trailed kisses down her neck. “I don’t know. I’m open to possibilities. But do you think we’ll have time to find something nice by tomorrow?”
He looked back at her with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. You know the last-minute instrument repairmen. I know the last-minute wardrobe folks. I’ll make some calls.”
Chapter Eight:
Heartless
Kyle could only stare.
They’d found a dress, and it was stunning on her. Ivory, not white. The bodice was sculptural silk, embroidered with very delicate, almost invisible pearls. He remembered tiny buttons on her bra, and this was that effect, only heightened. The dress was high-waisted, with a full skirt that rustled around her in elegant drapes and made her look even smaller and more delicate than she was. She wore no other adornment, only a small rhinestone comb he’d used in the back when he swept up her hair. She was spectacular. Denise looked as shocked as he felt, and told Caressa over and over how lovely she looked.
He felt quite suave and elegant too in his best tux. It was an important night, not least of all because she was going out there as someone new. A talented musician, yes, but a beautiful woman growing into her personality. She wasn’t meant to be dark and tailored. She was blinding brightness. It thrilled him to see her that way.
But she paced. He knew Lincoln Center was a big deal venue, perhaps the biggest venue on the tour. They were still almost forty minutes out from her performance, too much time for her to get nervous.
“Caressa,” he said. “Enough. Sit and take some deep breaths.” He told her things like that every so often as they waited in these backstage dressing rooms, and she ignored them. He felt obliged to say them anyway. He could look at her and give her an order in his dom voice. Sit, girl. But that only worked in the bedroom. Here, he was the submissive one, as much as he wished he wasn’t. She yanked at the carefully pressed folds of her gown.
“How can I sit in this anyway?” she fussed.
HE SUPPRESSED A SIGH, LOOKING AT DENISE. “WE ALREADY PRACTICED SITTING, REMEMBER? WE PRACTICED PLAYING. IT WORKED FINE. YOU’LL BE FINE. IT’S BEAUTIFUL.”
“IT’S NOT ME. I FEEL STUPID.”
“IT IS YOU,” SAID DENISE IN THAT CLOYING, PATRONIZING WAY OF HERS. “YOU PICKED IT OUT AND YOU LOVED IT.”
IT WAS TRUE. SHE’D BEEN LIKE A STARRY-EYED CHILD EARLIER, TRYING ON THOUSAND-DOLLAR DRESSES AND TURNING IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR. BUT HE SAW HER STARTING TO FRAY. HE SAW THE UNRAVELING BEFORE IT EVEN BEGAN. “CARESSA—”
“THIS IS—I CAN’T WEAR THIS. I NEED MY OTHER CLOTHES. KYLE—”
“CARA, NO.”
“I WANT THEM! GO GET THEM. THERE’S TIME.”
“IT’LL TAKE HALF AN HOUR,” DENISE PROTESTED. “FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. CARESSA, BE REASONABLE.”
“I CAN’T WEAR THIS! GO DOWNSTAIRS AND GET SOME CLOTHES THEN,” SHE SAID TO KYLE. “BLACK PANTS, BLACK SHIRT. GO TO COLUMBUS CIRCLE.”
“YOU’RE KIDDING ME, RIGHT?” HE WAS EXASPERATED, BUT SHE WAS FRANTIC AND RATCHETING UP.
“WHY AREN’T YOU LISTENING TO ME?” SHE WAILED, IN TEARS NOW. “DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? I CAN’T PERFORM THIS WAY.” SHE SPREAD HER ARMS AND GESTURED AT HER DRESS AS IF IT WERE A TIME BOMB ABOUT TO GO OFF. “WHY WON’T YOU HELP ME?”
“GOD DAMN IT. YOU ARE FUCKING CRAZY, YOU KNOW THAT?” HE SPUN ON HIS HEEL AND DID THE ONLY THING HE COULD DO, WHICH WAS RUN TO COLUMBUS CIRCLE AND RUN BACK WITH A BLACK ARMANI TOP AND PANTS HE PRAYED RAN TRUE TO SIZE. BY THE TIME HE RETURNED, DENISE WAS GONE. SHE ALWAYS LEFT THE MELTDOWNS TO HIM.
HE PULLED AT THE ZIPPER OF CARESSA’S DRESS, TEMPTED TO RIP IT OFF HER, WANTING TO TEAR IT TO A THOUSAND PIECES IN HIS FRUSTRATION. JUST DO YOUR JOB. THIS IS YOUR JOB. WHATEVER IT TAKES TO GET HER ON THAT FUCKING STAGE. SHE DRESSED IN SILENCE, PUTTING ON THE NEW GARMENTS AS HE RIPPED THE TAGS OFF. THEY FIT, BUT NOTHING LIKE THE DRESS, WHICH LAY DISCARDED NOW ON THE FLOOR. “DO YOU WANT YOUR HAIR DOWN?” HE GROUND OUT.
She didn’t answer. By this point it was already nearly time for her to head out the door to the stage. Still in a temper, he reached for the comb and yanked it out. She spun on him. “I’ll fucking do it.” She ripped the pins out and brought the whole thing down. She had no elastic to pull it back with, and he didn’t either. Bad assistant. Her hair stuck out from her head in all directions, a mass of unruly curls, gorgeous in its own disheveled way. He seethed and stared at her.
“You do not understand me,” she screamed at him. The monster, his lover. “Stop looking at me that way! You don’t understand!”
He bit his lip, wanting to hurt her. This wasn’t kink though, this wasn’t the cue for him to whip out the riding crop and give her an attitude adjustment. This was real life. This was someone he cared about out of control, a feeling sickeningly familiar to him.
She turned and left, heading to the stage. He followed at a distance, hating and loving her. She walked to her place front and center to vibrant applause, accepting her cello from the stagehand. She began to play, and even Kyle could see it was heightened, sharp. She put him in mind of a warrior, her hair like some wild headdress. He stalked back to the dressing room, leaving Denise to mind the prodigy. She was so frustrating. The most frustrating thing of all was how much he cared about her, and how little she cared back. He’d been there, done that. Read the novel all the way to the tragic end, blinked out on alcohol and cocaine.
She returned to the dressing room after the performance, looking exhausted but noticeably happy. At least there would be no post-concert meltdown today, no need to drag her to the cocktail party in the throes of artistic anguish. He’d already hung the dress away in the closet, tired of battle. He’d taken off his tuxedo jacket and thrown it over a chair. “I’m sure Denise is already there waiting for you.”
She hesitated, scrutinizing him. “You’re not coming?”
“I don’t particularly feel like coming. No.”
She looked down, then back up at him with a frown. “You only want me in that dress. You only want the elegant lady on your arm.”
He paused, the temper like a living thing inside him. He couldn’t let it out. He fell back on factual, impersonal phrases. “You wanted to go buy a dress. You asked me to help you. If you don’t want to wear it now, don’t. Whatever you like.”
“I’d like you to come with me.” She almost sounded apologetic. Almost.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Because you’re angry about the dress.”
“Fuck the dress, Caressa. Listen one more time. I'm not in the mood. Go on. Denise will be there.”
“I don’t want to go if you don’t go.”
“YOU HAVE TO GO. I DON’T.”
“Don’t you work for me?”
He narrowed his eyes. Don't say it. Don't say anything rash right now. He let out a long, deep breath and picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. “After you,” he managed to say in an almost normal voice.
* * * * *
CARESSA LAY IN BED, WANTING TO CRY BUT NOT QUITE ABLE TO. IT WAS LATE, NEARLY TWO IN THE MORNING. KYLE HAD JUST DROPPED HER OFF AT HOME AFTER STAYING WITH HER AT THE PARTY UNTIL THE BITTER END, LONG AFTER DENISE HAD SURRENDERED TO PEACE AND SLEEP. HE’D STOOD BESIDE HER THROUGH THE ENDLESS BLATHERING CONVERSATIONS, THE PRAISE AND INANE QUESTIONS. HOW DID YOU COME TO LOVE THE CELLO? HOW MUCH DO YOU PRACTICE? WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE SONGS? SHE’D DESPERATELY WANTED SOME OF THE CHAMPAGNE, ANYTHING TO TAKE THE EDGE OFF, BUT HE’D SAID NO. HE’D STOOD AT HER ELBOW THE WHOLE NIGHT AND HADN’T LET HER TAKE A DRINK. WELL, SHE SUPPOSED IT WAS BECAUSE OF THAT RED WINE INCIDENT…
But there was more to it. What had he told her the night he found her in the bar? Trying not to have a drink… He hadn’t taken one drink, while everyone around them grew progressively drunker. A cola. Some water. Nothing more. Why had he gotten so upset about the dress? It wasn’t the dress, Caressa. You screamed at him.
She’d ordered h
im around. Again. She liked when he did it in the bedroom, but he didn’t like when she did it back to him. But the bedroom was the bedroom, and outside the bedroom she had shit she had to do. It wasn’t negotiable. He didn’t understand that. The cool, reproachful look he’d given her at the door had taken away any of the pride she’d felt at her concert performance, as well as any pleasure she’d found as the center of attention at a Lincoln Center benefit. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, but it did.
She rolled out of bed and picked up her phone. She scrolled to his number, then put it down again. It was late. He was mad at her. She picked it up a moment later and dialed his number anyway. When it went to voicemail she hung up. Then she dialed again.
“HELLO, CARESSA.” ANGRY, GRITTY CARAMEL THIS TIME. NOT SWEET.
“KYLE. ARE YOU SLEEPING?”
“NOT ANYMORE.”
“I’M SORRY.” SHE FELL SILENT. THAT WAS THE EXTENT OF WHAT SHE’D PLANNED TO SAY. SILENCE ON THE OTHER END. “KYLE, ARE YOU THERE?”
A BIG SIGH. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
“I’M SORRY,” SHE REPEATED. “I’M SORRY.”
“OKAY, YOU’RE SORRY. THAT REALLY DOESN’T COMFORT ME BECAUSE THIS THING YOU’RE SAYING SORRY FOR—YOU’RE JUST GOING TO DO IT AGAIN.”
“I KNOW. YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, THOUGH—”
“NEXT TIME YOU TELL ME I DON’T UNDERSTAND SOMETHING, I’M QUITTING. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, YOU LITTLE NUTCASE?”
“I’m not a nutcase, I’m just…” She swallowed the impulse to once again say you don’t understand. “I miss you,” she said instead. “I wish you were here. Or that I was over there.” Suddenly she ached to be with him. She wanted to touch him and apologize to him face-to-face, body-to-body. “Can I come over there?” She waited, afraid he would say no, but he said yes and had her write down his address. She took a cab, and was there a half hour later.
He answered the door in boxers and nothing else, leaning against the doorsill looking tired. He took her hand and led her through his darkened apartment to the bedroom, and she was kind of relieved he didn’t say anything, or expect any words from her as he took her clothes off and dropped them on the floor. He pulled the covers up over them both and cradled her close to him in the dark.
Caressa’s Knees Page 11